Cure for Wereduck

By Dave Atkinson

An old family recipe could save a 13-year-old wereduck and her family from danger in this action-packed, paranormal fantasy sequel.

Kate is an odd duck—literally. When the full moon arrives, the rest of her family turns into wolves, but she is a happy wereduck. Relatively happy, that is. Her family has been uprooted from the wilds of New Brunswick to a placid farming community in Ontario, thanks to a fellow werewolf, Marcus, selling them out to sleazy tabloid journalist Dirk Bragg.

When Kate discovers her great-great-grandmother’s recipe “A Cure for Werewolf,” she can’t help but wonder, is it really possible? Could she one day resist the call of the moon? Could she be free from the constant threat of exposure? When Marcus’s abandoned werewolf son, John, books a desperate train journey back to New Brunswick at the full moon, the ancient recipe and its arcane ingredients are put to the test. Will Dirk Bragg finally corner Kate and John in their wereforms and expose them to the world, or will the “Cure for Werewolf” keep them safe?

A rare sequel that is as full of action and revelations as its predecessor, A Cure for Wereduck is imaginative, exciting, and peppered with delightful humor.

“As silly and fun as it is believable: you’ll be checking your friends for feathers at every full moon. . . . With cliffhanging scenes in all the right places, I cannot wait for book three!” —Meghan Marentette, author of The Stowaways

“[A] fast-paced fun read . . . Mixes a generous portion of action and adventure with plenty of humor.” —Riel Nason, author of The Town That Drowned

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781771084468

Book preview

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"Cure for Wereduck is as silly and fun as it is believable: you’ll be checking your friends for feathers at every full moon. Dave Atkinson’s roll-off-the-tongue dialogue and smooth, vivid action make this novel a page-turner kids will simply enjoy. With cliffhanging scenes in all the right places, I cannot wait for book three!"

—Meghan Marentette, author of The Stowaways

"Fans will be happy to see that this book starts right where Wereduck ended. I may be slightly older than the target age group, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying this fast-paced fun read. Cure for Wereduck mixes a generous portion of action and adventure with plenty of humour."

—Riel Nason, author of 2012 Commonwealth Book Prize–winning The Town That Drowned

"Dave Atkinson’s Cure for Wereduck is a rollicking good story, with equal measures of mystery, drama, and humour. The wereduck variation of werewolf is a wonderful invention. Readers will love the duck named Wacka in both her duckly and wereduckly forms.

This novel is just plain fun. Read it. You’ll see."

—Deirdre Kessler, children’s author and Prince Edward Island poet laureate

"I rate Wereduck 10/10 and will be one of the first to buy the next books.

—John

"I really enjoyed reading your book! You are an amazing author and I hope that I will become one too.

—Bonnie

"I’m writing to thank you for coming all this way to our West Royalty Elementary School and telling us about Wereduck. I loved it. I read it all. It’s AMAZING! Good luck in your new book. I hope it’s as good as Wereduck. I wasn’t into reading too much but when I read your book I loved it so now I’m reading more!

—Diego

Copyright © 2016, Dave Atkinson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

Nimbus Publishing Limited

3731 Mackintosh St, Halifax, NS B3K 5A5

[phone] nimbus.ca

Printed and bound in Canada

NB1212

Cover and interior illustration and design: Jenn Embree

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Atkinson, Dave, 1978-, author

Cure for Wereduck / Dave Atkinson.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77108-445-1 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-77108-446-8 (html)

I. Title.

PS8601.T5528C87 2016 jC813’.6 C2016-903732-0

C2016-903733-9

Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

To the duck I met that time in Stratford, with apologies.

Laura woke up with a gasp. The room was dark.

She stared at the ceiling, the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears. She drew deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

Her hand fumbled on the night table for her glasses. She put them on and looked at the clock. It was 2:34 a.m.

Laura swung her legs over the side of her bed and padded on bare feet to the top of the stairs. She descended to the kitchen. The glow from the clock on the microwave lit her way to the sink. She poured herself a glass of cold water and carried it to the back door.

Calm down, she told herself as she peered through the screen. There’s nothing out there. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

She knew it was a lie. There was something to be afraid of. She’d known for fifteen years. Everyone told her it was her imagination, but her nightmares were as real as the glass in her hand.

She knew from experience she wouldn’t get back to sleep tonight. She could return to her bed and watch every minute of every hour creep by. Or she could turn on her computer and lose a couple of games of chess to anonymous people on the internet. Or she could—

She gasped. That sound.

Howling.

Her glass fell, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. It was her nightmare, but real.

No, she blurted. Her head shook back and forth, willing the sound from her ears. No, no, no….

She was losing control, and she could feel it. Her fear was taking over again.

Get a grip, Laura, she told herself. Get control. Get….

Her eyes grew wide.

She strode to the living room and flicked on the lamp by the couch. She approached the bookshelf and pulled down a cigar box from the top shelf. She blew dust from the lid.

Get control, she thought. Take control.

Laura closed her eyes. She forced herself to listen: a chorus of howls, just as she’d feared.

No, she thought, straining to hear. Not quite.

It wasn’t the low, terrifying howl she’d heard in her dreams. It was higher, more frantic. This was something else.

Coyotes, she said aloud. It’s just coyotes.

She had read somewhere that coyotes were moving into this part of the country. She had just never heard them here before.

She carried the box to the kitchen and placed it on the table. She turned to the calendar on the wall and searched for the familiar and ancient symbols most people overlooked.

The full moon isn’t for a few weeks, she whispered to herself. Of course. It’s just coyotes.

She collapsed into a chair, laying her cheek on the cold surface of the table. She breathed in and out, counting to four between each breath until she calmed down.

She sat up and pulled the box toward her. She traced its edges and corners before she flipped open the lid and reached inside. Her fingers wrapped around familiar, cold steel as she drew out the revolver.

She had always hated guns. In her earlier life, she would never have imagined the amount of time she would spend researching and reading through gun catalogues before selecting this very one. More specifically, for the single bullet that sat loaded in its chamber.

It turns out they don’t sell silver bullets at your neighbourhood gun shop.

Kate stood frozen on the threshold of the small, wood-framed house. Sunlight streamed around her body, showing the dark-haired girl in silhouette. She held a knapsack in one hand and a pillow in the other.

Um, Aunt Bea— began Kate. She stared into the living room, eyes wide. Bea?

Bea strode up behind her with suitcases in her hands. She peered around Kate into the house. What is it? What’s wrong?

Kate and her family were tired from a long journey. They had driven two days without rest from New Brunswick to southern Ontario, moving all their worldly possessions—few as they were—to Aunt Bea’s house. Until this moment, the only thing on thirteen-year-old Kate’s mind was the thought of a soft bed to crash on.

You never told us, said Kate, slowly pronouncing each word, that you have a cat.

A grey tabby stirred in the corner of the room. It sat on a couch cushion and began to wash its paws.

"Cat? came a voice. Did somebody say cat?"

Kate’s eleven-year-old brother, Bobby, pushed past them into the house, his eyes alighting on the cat.

Cat! yelled Bobby. Dad, come quick! He ran at the cat before his father, Brian, could enter the house.

Cat? exclaimed Brian, nearly knocking over Kate as he chased his son through the door. Bea yelped as Bobby dived at her cat, his hands grasping for its tail before it jumped away at the last minute.

Mr. Whiskers! gasped Bea.

You head him off at the stairs, Dad, ordered Bobby. I’ll chase him toward you.

Bobby knocked over a lamp beside the couch as he corralled the terrified cat toward his father.

I have him! yelled Brian.

Mr. Whiskers paused for a moment, calculating the timing required to dash between the man’s legs and up the stairs.

I don’t have him, said Brian, grabbing at air as Mr. Whiskers breezed past.

Up the stairs, Dad! We’ve got him cornered!

Bobby and Brian thundered up the staircase.

NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO KILL MY CAT! bellowed Bea.

She was answered by a crash that sounded suspiciously like a mattress and box spring being flipped over in an upstairs bedroom.

BRIAN, I AM SERIOUS, she shouted.

Brian appeared sheepishly at the top of the stairs. Aw, jeesh, Bea, he said. We’re just having a little fun.

"Torturing my cat isn’t fun, she scolded. This is my house. Leave the cat alone."

Okay, okay, he said, walking down the stairs, Bobby in tow.

What kind of werewolf keeps a cat for a pet, Aunt Bea? said Bobby, sitting on a step.

Yeah, said Brian, flashing her a grin. You’re some kind of sicko.

"I like cats," she replied.

Kate’s mother and grandmother stood in the doorway, each with an armful of bags and bedding.

Backlog in the living room, announced Marge, a strong-looking older woman. Where are you going to put us all, Bea? I want to get unpacked.

Mum, you’re in my room upstairs. We’ll bunk together for now, said Bea. Brian and Lisa, you’re in the other room up there.

What about me? came a voice from the doorway.

The party turned to see John—just a few years older than Kate, he was the only member of the group she wasn’t related to. John’s father had abandoned him in New Brunswick after John refused to help put Kate’s family on the front page of a junky tabloid newspaper.

John, said Bea, you and Bobby can sleep in the living room on the pull-out couch. Sorry, it’s the best I’ve got, given the circumstances.

No problem, said John. He dropped his pack and bedroll on the ground beside the couch. He smiled. Look, I’m already unpacked.

And Katie, said Bea, eyeing her niece. I’ve been thinking about what to do with you. Come with me.

Bea led Kate through the kitchen to the basement door. They walked down the steps to a room with a ceiling so low they could barely stand up. The walls were the rough concrete of the house’s foundation. It smelled vaguely of dirty laundry.

It gets better, I promise, said Bea, noticing the look on Kate’s face.

A corner of the open basement was walled off with wood